"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame, cheerily.
"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em. I do, mother," quoth he, thumping the table with his fist until the dishes rattled.
"Softly, softly, boy! Where's thy good nature gone?" said Mother Growser, staring at him in wonder.
"It be well enough to say 'Softly, softly,'" said he, "and I don't want to grieve ye, mother; but it's naught with me but hammer, stitch, dig,—hammer, stitch, dig,—the day in, the day out, when I might be raisin' fine melons and sellin' 'em for mints of gold in the great city. Yea, mother, sellin' 'em e'en to the king and queen and all the grand lords and ladies at the court, like old Farmer Hummidge."
For almost the first time in his life Jim was unhappy.
"I would you had your wish, Nimble Jim; but then we've a neat bit garden besides the melons; and the home is snug, and you're a good boy and the best o' cobblers. Can't you be happy with that, my lad?"
But Nimble Jim shook his head, for the spirit of discontent had taken possession of him.
Now, for many days, Nimble Jim neglected his cobbling and let the weeds grow in his garden, while he moodily watched his melons as they withered away. Soon he came to idle about them in the evening, too, until, one bright moonlight night, as he was grieving over the wretched, scraggy vines, he heard a tiny, silvery voice quite near him cry, tauntingly:
"Hello, Nimble Jim! How are your melons?"
Jim would have been very angry at such a question could he have seen anybody to be angry with; but, though he looked and looked with all his eyes, not a soul could he see.